


Front and Center

by interrobangme



Category: Alien: Isolation (Video Game)
Genre: Because every fandom needs them, F/M, Robot Feels, five times fic, inspired by real-life overly polite British people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 14:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interrobangme/pseuds/interrobangme
Summary: "'Your list of personnel is approved, except for one. Amanda Ripley.'Behind his back, Samuels’ hands clenched until they creaked."Or: five times Samuels offered Ripley his chair, and one time she accepted.





	Front and Center

**Five**

“I see you’ve done your homework, Samuels,” an older exec, Shaughnessy, said.

“Thank you, sir,” Samuels answered. He stood before the semi-circle of senior executives, hands folded behind his back.

“I’m not finished yet,” Shaughnessy grumbled. Samuels stood infinitesimally straighter.

“Sir?”

The exec to Shaughnessy’s left, Keene, a younger woman with dark hair and sharp eyes, addressed him. “Your list of personnel is approved, except for one. Amanda Ripley.”

Samuels overrode the urge to clench his jaw. “May I ask why?”

The other execs shuffled the papers in front of them, keeping their gazes on their desks. Shaughnessy answered, “She doesn’t serve a purpose on the team, aside from her emotional investment in the retrieval of the flight recorder.”

“On the contrary,” Samuels began, calling up the log of his report from his memory banks. “Ripley is not only the daughter of Ellen Ripley, of the lost _Nostromo_ ship, she’s also a skilled mechanic and engineer. If you consult page fourteen of my report, you’ll see that—”

“The _Torrens_ has their own crew to take care of any mechanical needs of the ship,” Keene interrupted.

“Certainly,” Samuels agreed. “But they won’t be available on board Sevastopol at all times. They need to attend to the _Torrens_ first and foremost, while our team meets with the _Anesidora_ crew and negotiates the return of the flight recorder. Ripley is well-trained and her achievements speak for themselves, should any repairs need to be made to the flight recorder or otherwise.”

Shaughnessy sat back and sighed. He said, “Samuels, it just isn’t in our best interests to have someone so emotionally involved on this trip. There’s no room for error.”

Behind his back, Samuels’ hands clenched until they creaked.

Keene agreed. “The Company wants to keep the team small for this expedition in any case, and there are more than enough people bearing witness to who knows what on this flight recorder. It’s a matter of confidentiality as much as anything else.”

Samuels looked around the room and saw that the other execs were all still studiously checking their paperwork.

“You understand,” Keene said, leaning forward, her voice softer than it had been throughout the meeting. “Don’t you, Samuels?”

While Samuels willed himself to unclench his fists and stretch the abused joints at his sides, the hours of research he put into this request flashed through his mind. In an instant he reviewed all the files on Amanda Ripley—the photos of her from childhood to adulthood that the Company kept records of, the history of her troubled youth after losing her mother, then the upturn in her studies, good grades and hard work used to reach this sector. Offers of promotions and transfers denied while she waited, with no promise of results, for news of her mother’s lost ship.

“Of course I understand,” Samuels answered with his most placid smile. “And I’d be happy to give up my seat in order to accommodate Miss Ripley.”

The room grew silent. The paper-shuffling execs all looked up. Shaughnessy, who had been blatantly checking his data pad as Keene wrapped up the meeting, stared at Samuels, frowning.

Before they could refuse his offer, Samuels continued, “Ripley is more useful on a ship and, if it comes to it, with repairing the flight recorder. I can be programmed to serve a more hands-on function, but as of now my role is strictly administrative. Not to mention she deserves to learn the truth more than I do, if it is purely a matter of confidentiality. And so,” he concluded, hands neatly behind his back once more, “I’m happy to step down and extend the offer of my seat to Amanda Ripley.”

The execs cast nervous glances at Shaughnessy. Keene sat with her arms folded, scowling. Shaughnessy set his data pad down and the corners of his mouth nearly twitched up in a smile. But as soon as Samuels had seen it, the expression was gone, returned to the blank mask of middle management.

“I think there will be enough room for you both,” he said. “As long as you’re certain she’s not a threat to the integrity of the mission.”

Samuels didn’t have to review his files to know that Amanda Ripley was stronger than these execs would ever believe. “Certainly, sir.”

Keene turned to Shaughnessy. She leaned forward, preparing to say something, but Shaughnessy spoke first.

“You’ll have my notes on your inventory requests by tomorrow, Samuels. Dismissed.”

With a curt nod, Samuels turned on his heel and marched out. He could have withheld the smile that crept onto his face as he returned to his office, but he found he didn’t want to.

 

**Four**

Ripley wiped the flop-sweat from her brow and walked into the pre-flight meeting with the crew of the _Torrens_. She felt cold and flushed at the same time. It seemed like everyone in the room would be able to hear her heart beating, too hard and too fast. She was so close to the answers she’d been seeking for years.

She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. As she stepped into the room she met the eyes of the crew, seated around a table, looking up at her from data pads and clipboards. She gave a slight nod to the oldest woman in the group, the captain. One by one, everyone’s focus returned to the table and the murmur of planning resumed.

Except for Samuels. He had sprung out of his seat the moment she walked in and was still watching her with his too-discerning gaze. She willed herself to look calm, relaxing her shoulders and sidling up beside a man in overalls. Mechanics she could understand. Synthetics, not so much.

“Ripley,” Samuels said, still standing, still watching. “Please, take my seat.”

He stood behind the silver chair, evidently unaware as everyone looked up once again.

Ripley stifled a frustrated sigh. Her shoulders tensed again. “I’m fine,” she ground out, turning her eyes back to the papers on the table.

Samuels’ brow furrowed. He still held the chair in front of him as he puzzled out this turn of events. “Ripley,” he started.

“I’d rather stand,” she answered. She pointed at a fuel cell on the schematics in front of her and raised a question to the group before he could say anything else.

The conversation dragged itself back on track, and Samuels returned to his chair after a few more seconds of confusion. He raked his gaze over Ripley, trying to understand the woman leaning over, making notes on diagrams.

She turned to the woman to her left, presenting Samuels with her back.

 

**Three**

After talking with Waits and getting information about the flight recorder from Marlow, Ripley readied her ammo and prepared to leave the Marshal station. As she turned to make for the door, she saw Samuels sitting across the station in one of the many sterile-looking white chairs.

He gazed back at her levelly, but his hair was slightly mussed. He was leaning forward, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped in his lap. She couldn’t remember seeing his posture anything but military perfect since she met him. Samuels gave her a half-smile, one corner of his mouth quirking up at her.

Ripley cast a glance at the door, then quickly walked over to stand in front of him.

“Hey,” she said. “How are you holding up, Samuels?”

He stared off for a moment, his eyes taking on a glazed look. Before Ripley could question it, the light returned to his eyes and he spoke.

“According to my neural receivers, I am functioning at 89% capacity,” he said. “It isn’t ideal, but nothing to worry about, certainly.”

Ripley stared at him, frowning for a moment. Then she burst into laughter, doubling over, her bag of weapons knocking against her leg. Samuels watched as her laughter turned more and more breathless, edging on hysterical. He jolted to his feet.

“Ripley, are you unwell?” He reached out a hand to touch her elbow, guiding her towards his chair.

“No, no, it’s okay,” she choked out between coughs, the laughter finally dying down as she took a few deep breaths.

He scrutinized her face and said, “Please, take my chair. Rest for a moment.”

Ripley looked down at his hand on her arm, then at his chair, lined up against a wall with at least a dozen more of the same chairs. She felt the laughter bubbling up again, but tamped it down this time.

“Thanks, Samuels,” she said, reaching over to the next chair and dragging it closer. “But there’s no shortage of seats here. I think I’m all set.” She sat down and, after a beat, Samuels returned to his seat.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He asked, looking her up and down.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just...I think I forgot what it felt like to laugh.” She plopped her bag down on the chair beside her and leaned back, head tilted toward the ceiling. “To think we were on the _Torrens_ just hours ago.”

Satisfied that she wasn’t about to crumple to the ground in a cackling heap, Samuels leaned back as well, his gaze joining hers on the featureless ceiling. He folded his hands over his stomach.

“I’m glad I could be of assistance,” he said. Ripley didn’t have to turn to see the small smile on his face.

“I meant how are you doing as a person? Not ‘at what percentage are you functioning?’” She turned her head to see his profile. “You look a bit tired.” She saw his chest move up and down in what looked like a sigh.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before.” They sat in silence for a moment, just breathing and staring at the ceiling.

Ripley eventually broke the silence. “And?” She scooted her body to the side a little, turning to face Samuels, leaning her head and shoulder against the wall.

“And,” he said, stopping to clear his throat, “I just hope you’ll be careful out there. This is an impossible situation, and we may be able to make it out, but in all likelihood we won’t all survive. I’m responsible for you being on the expedition in the first place. I can’t help but feel that—”

“Hey,” Ripley interrupted, her brow furrowed, “don’t do that. No one could have known how fucked up things were here. It’s not your fault.” When he didn’t reply, she reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Samuels.”

He looked at her and turned to mirror her position. For a moment Ripley felt like they were just two kids at a sleepover, tired, pressed close together to share secrets. But then Samuels spoke, and reality came crashing in again.

“I should go with you. I can protect you.”

She shook her head. “No, you need to stay here with Taylor. I don’t trust Waits.” She glanced over to the Marshal’s office, her eyes narrowed. “And besides,” she said, patting her bag and standing up, “I can protect myself.”

Samuels stood, looking at her face intently, as if he was trying to memorize every detail. “Take care, Ripley.”

“You too, Samuels.” She squeezed his arm once, and was gone.

 

**Two**

01000011 01101111 01101101 01110000 01101100 01100101 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110011 01111001 01110011 01110100 01100101 01101101 01110011 00100000 01100110 01100001 01101001 01101100 01110101 01110010 01100101 00101110 00100000 01010010 01100101 01100010 01101111 01101111 01110100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110

C://PRIMARY POWER: OFFLINE

C://AUXILIARY POWER: 20%

OCULAR INPUT REBOOTING IN 5...4... 3...2... 1.

Samuels blinked and reached for his eyes, only to find his motor skills compromised. His arm jerked erratically, emitting an angry mechanical hum. He laid his arm by his side and tried to reorient himself. For a moment, he couldn’t understand what had happened to damage his systems so badly.

As his backup power kicked in and various processes came back online one by one, he found that he was laying on a horizontal surface some feet above the floor. He turned his head slowly and saw that he was on a stretcher. Had he been in an accident and been brought to Synthetics Maintenance?

He slowly tried to lever himself up onto his elbows and was relieved when they held his weight. He looked around and saw that he was in a hallway, frayed wires dangling from the ceiling like sparking tentacles, a trail of milky white fluid on the floor leading to a deactivated Working Joe.

Sevastopol. The creature. Amanda.

_“I wanted Amanda Ripley to have closure.”_

Around the corner, there was the sound of a crash followed by running footsteps headed his way. Samuels tried and failed to stand upright, falling back to the stretcher and cursing his fragmented power. He focused on breathing deeply in and out, the air flowing into his internal fans and cooling his exhausted systems. As the footsteps drew closer, he braced himself for whatever was to come.

There was the sound of concentrated fire, like a blowtorch, followed by a primal keening and the slam of a vent closing.

“Now stay in there, you son of a bitch.”

The swearing reassured him more than anything else could have.

Ripley came around the corner, her steps calculated even as she dragged one leg slightly behind her. She leaned against the wall a few feet away from where his stretcher was shrouded in darkness. Even in the dim lighting of the failing station, Samuels could see the litany of injuries marring her face and arms, the torn sleeves of her jumpsuit, the exhausted way she slumped against the wall.

He found the strength to stand, his feet touching the floor as he called out, “Ripley!” Immediately she tensed, thrusting a bolt gun in front of her like a shield. Once her gaze landed on him, leaning against the stretcher as he tried to will his balance to return, she sagged with relief.

She ran over, wrapping her arms around him. “Oh my God, Samuels,” she breathed into his neck. “I was afraid you were really gone.”

For several seconds Samuels simply blinked, until his mind caught up with his body and he returned her embrace, his arms uncoordinated. An alarm sounded in his head reminding him to take in air to ventilate his fried hard drives.

“Please, Ripley,” he said gently, lowering his arms to lightly hold her around the waist. “You’re injured. Sit down.” He started to move aside, pulling her onto the stretcher, but tilted sideways at the loss of support.

Fortunately, Ripley’s reactions were swifter than his in his current state. She darted in front of him, planting her feet wide and pushing back against him, her hands on his shoulders.

“Damnit, Samuels,” she hissed, using his weight to tip him back against the stretcher. “You were literally dead five minutes ago. Sit. Down.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she covered his lips with one finger. “I don’t have time for your politeness protocols, or whatever the hell you call it.” She frowned at him as she looked him over for any signs of imminent collapse. “I didn’t wrestle you onto this stretcher to watch you sabotage your own reboot.”

When she was satisfied he wasn’t about to die or otherwise interrupt her, she said, “I wasn’t sure you’d wake up. I’m really glad you’re alive.”

Samuels didn’t have to check through his damaged memory banks to know he’d never been referred to as “alive” before he met Amanda Ripley. He coughed, trying to hide a smile he couldn’t control. “So am I. I’m sure I have you to thank for that.”

“Or whoever designed you.” She placed her hands on her hips and met his eyes. “You’re really something, Samuels.”

Samuels wasn’t sure what to say to that, and chose to blame his overwrought hardware. “Yes, well, I could say the same for you.” Ripley snorted, but he hurried on. “And besides, I’m not programmed with ‘politeness protocols.’ It’s simply called ‘being a gentleman.’”

Ripley rolled her eyes, but for the first time since he’d woken up, she smiled. He found himself doing the same.

 

**One**

The pounding of Ripley’s footsteps echoed down the hallway in time with her breathing. Her gait was slightly off-kilter on her right side. She was pretty sure she’d pulled a few muscles wriggling free from a Working Joe. Plus the lacerations she’d collected climbing through glass and twisted metal and any variety of destructive detritus all over the station, and the swelling of some huge bruises, courtesy of the creature’s angry tail as she just barely slid out of a vent.

“Running causes accidents,” the cold voice behind her said.

She clenched her teeth and pushed past the pain in her leg, and in her ribs, and in her head. She all but dragged her leg behind her, searching for a doorway to duck into, somewhere, anywhere to hide.

“You are violating Seegson protocol,” the voice informed her again, closer now. The remark was slightly overlapped by that of the other Working Joe marching alongside him, eyes red.

“Possession of a firearm is punishable by the marshals.”

She was low on ammo, and hadn’t had a free second to craft a trap or bomb in what felt like hours. She’d been running ever since Samuels took the last of their pre-built pipe bombs and lured the creature away with them. She thought it wouldn’t go after him since he had no organic signature, but he’d proven that it would follow anything if you got it angry enough.

She turned a corner, hoping to lose them in Medical, but skidded to a stop in front of yet another pair of Joes. With an about-face that took far too long and put more pressure on her bad leg, Ripley squeezed by the two incoming Joes with no time to spare. One of them reached for her hair, but she jerked her head aside as she ran and was able to get ahead before it could grab her.

“Goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit,” she chanted in time with her steps. She saw the door out of Medical ahead, with a tell-tale red light signaling that it was locked.

“With Seegson, there is someone behind you every single step of the way.” She could hear their rubbery skin twisting, feel the slight breeze behind her as their hands reached out and fell, trying to grasp her shoulder.

She wouldn’t have time to hack the door. She had no idea where Samuels was, or if he was even still alive. He seemed to have a penchant for self-sacrifice.

“I will catch you.”

The second she reached the locked exit, she whirled around, kicking against the wall as she swung the bolt gun in front of her and fired. A direct hit. The Joe closest to her went down, hitting the floor. She landed on its body, folding down as the other mechanical hands reached for her. She scrambled ahead, her shoes slipping in the puddle of milky fluid gushing from the fallen synthetic.

She squeaked along the corridor, turning left this time, into a closed-off exam room. She slammed her fist against the door-close button, but nothing happened. “Come on, come the fuck on!”

The Joes pushed in, heedless of one another. She aimed and fired once more, another Joe falling, this time forward, towards her, as the others continued their squirming push through the doorway. She backed up quickly, out from under the heavy body, but found herself cornered.

She raised the bolt gun and pulled the trigger to hear the hollow click of an empty chamber. As the Joes advanced, she tried to pull herself up, levering her weight against the wall. But her leg had well and truly given up, and her sneakers couldn’t find purchase in another pool of synthetic hydraulic fluid.

She turned the bolt gun heavy-side forward and swung, clipping one Joe in the face and harmlessly swatting the other’s outstretched hand away.

“Ripley!” A voice called, rapidly approaching, momentarily distracting the Joes as she crawled through their legs.

“In here, Samuels,” she shouted back, the Joes turning back to her. “I’m in—” she was cut off as one of the Joes yanked her up by her collar, slamming her into the wall. She looked at its face, peeling back from its exoskeleton where she’d hit it, rubber skin hanging sickly.

“You’re starting to test my patience.”

Ripley tried to reach the strap of the bolt gun on the floor with her foot, but was too high off the ground.

“Amanda!” Samuels shouted, skidding into the room, looking worse off than when he’d left. He was immediately met by the other Working Joe. Ripley heard them struggle as she turned away again, digging into her pockets looking for something to fight with. There was a deep clang as Samuels pinned his Joe against a wall with one hand. With the other, he reached to the floor and pulled.

“Here,” he called, “take the chair!”

“Are you fucking—” Ripley choked out before the Joe wrapped its other hand around her neck.

Fantastic, she thought. She was going to die on this godforsaken station, suffocated by a rabid synthetic because Samuels was wonked beyond repair and couldn’t bypass his fucking Politeness Chip long enough to help her.

She looked over as her vision began to go dark, clawing at the Joe’s arms. Samuels held out a metal stool, wrenched at the bottom where it had been bolted to the floor. The Joe pinned by his arm surged against him, and Samuels dropped the stool momentarily, focusing his attention on the synthetic.

“I said—” he growled, reaching out with both hands and snapping the Joe’s neck in one smooth motion.

“Take—” he approached now, the stool back in his hands.

“The bloody—” he reached up and slammed the stool down into the Working Joe, whose head erupted in a fluidy mess.

“Chair,” he finished, panting over the body of the Joe as his overtaxed systems went haywire.

Ripley coughed from the floor, rubbing at her neck.

“Amanda, are you alr—” he stopped suddenly, mid-step, trying to reach her.

Ripley stared up at him. He held one hand to his head where it looked like it had been burned at some point. He seemed to be doing that thing again, where he focused inside himself. She imagined lots of warning sirens flashing in his head.

Ripley slowly stood, mindful of her leg and blinking away the stars in her eyes. At her movement, Samuels said again, “Are you alright?” He held out a hand, and she took it, stepping lightly over the mess of Working Joes on the floor.

She nodded, not trusting her throat yet. Samuels looked her over, cataloging dozens of wounds, small and large, unable to do much to attend to them now. He moved closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, carefully avoiding her right leg, and helped her walk out of the room.

“I’m sorry for the language,” he muttered as they made their slow way out of Medical. “As you know, I’m not performing at optimum efficiency.”

Ripley couldn’t help but laugh at that, a dry, rough sound that hurt her throat. “I guess your politeness protocol is still online, all the same,” she forced out in a whisper.

Samuels opened his mouth, but she interrupted him. “Just being a gentleman,” she said. “I know.”

She stopped walking and turned in his arms to hug him around the neck, pushing up on her good leg to reach his lips. It was over in a second, just a peck, but she was amused to see Samuels still blinking in surprise when she pulled back.

“Thank you, Samuels,” she said, returning her arm to its position over his shoulder and beginning to move. He stayed immobile, however, and she turned to see him staring openly at her face, eyes glittering like he had a fever.

“I think,” he started, then cleared his throat. His voice had sounded nearly as wispy-quiet as hers. “I think that you can call me Christopher, Amanda,” he finished, voice soft again when he said her name.

“Okay, Chris,” she said, feeling a flutter in her stomach as he returned her grin. As one, they walked side by side down the corridor, past sparking wires hanging from the ceilings and the carnage of destroyed Joes on the floor. It was the most peaceful either of them had felt in a long time.

 

**Plus One**

“Hey, Chris?” Ripley called as she walked into their apartment, tossing her key card in a bowl on the hallway table. “I thought we could do sushi tonight, since we just had pizza.”

She walked into the living room to find Samuels sitting at the table, looking up from a data pad, a stylus dangling from his hand. “It makes no difference to me, Amanda.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘I have no need to process organic nutrients,’ blah blah blah.” She saw that the other chair across the small, circular table was the same as she’d left it that morning, covered in a stack of schematics and books with a sweatshirt strewn on top. She walked up behind Samuels and wrapped her arms around his chest, leaning down to drop her chin into his hair. “I know you like the unagi, whether you need to eat or not.”

Samuels hummed in acknowledgment, reaching one hand up to squeeze hers where they joined on his chest. He held up the data pad and asked, “Thirteen down?”

Ripley lifted her chin and leaned over slightly to make out the clue. Samuels easily could have done a quick search through the info-library he was synced up to, but she knew he sometimes liked to disconnect himself from that endless font of knowledge, manually shutting down the network to try something as simple as filling out a crossword, relying only on his experiences.

“An axle,” she supplied.

“Of course,” he answered, filling it in with the stylus before setting down the pad. He leaned his head back against her. “How was your day?”

Ripley sighed, preparing to rant about incompetent assistant engineers, when Samuels must have noticed the cluttered chair across from him. He surged upwards, nearly causing Ripley to knock her teeth together as she stepped back.

“Forgive me,” he said, reaching up to gently disentangle her arms from where they were wrapped on his shoulders now. “Please, have my seat.”

He moved to step away, but Ripley’s grip only tightened. She circled around to stand in front of him, her hands still joined, shifting to the back of his neck. She stepped closer until they were pressed together.

“Since you’re always so insistent,” she said, a dark gleam in her eyes, “I will have a seat.”

Samuels smirked, puzzled but amused, as he often was in her presence.

“But Amanda,” he began, only to stop as he felt her pressing against him, stepping forward until he was forced to yield, his knees bending as he lowered back into the seat. She followed, her legs straddling his as she sat in his lap.

“You know, maybe you’re onto something,” she said, placing her forehead against his. “This seat is pretty comfortable.” He smirked, and she kissed both corners of his mouth in turn. He gripped her waist with one hand and reached up with the other to bury it in her hair.

“I think I can get used to your take on the arrangement,” he said. Their lips met and she wriggled closer still, firmly held by his arms, her hands linked behind his neck as she stroked a thumb lazily in his hair.

There was no more talk of seating arrangements.


End file.
